Yowies At Yowah

There’s no Yowies At Yowah The place is too bloody dry The river Just a dip in the dirt No water To ruffle its skirt There’s no Yowies At Yowah Water that is Comes a thousand feet below Boiling hot Steaming On a stinking hot day Smelling of sulphur Not fit for a crested cockatoo There’s no Yowies At Yowah The nearby lake Um Fifty K’s away Dry as a skate bowl I walk to the middle Past Emu’s that huddle Under a lone tree Panting No energy To run away There’s no Yowies At Yowah Which is a pity As they might eat all the kiddies Who bleat and bleat To call their ma There’s no Yowies At Yowah Althou some of the old folk Could be mistaken for All that time spent Chasing those nuts Could turn you into A Yowie At Yowah